Wolf Like Me - 12. Cory Has a Posse

Part One – Little Indiana

For reasons that were beyond me, I fully expected to jump off the school bus and find Laurel Sage waiting for me in the middle of the high school quad. We’d been inseparable my last year at Townsend, but I was going to have to wait another two years before she’d be able to join me at Bishop. I made it all the way through seventh grade without a having friend at all, let alone a best friend. I told myself I could survive until my junior year without Laurel.

But, standing in front of the massive collection of buildings, with crowds of much larger kids swarming around me, I wanted nothing more than to run back to middle school and wait out the next couple years. I wouldn’t be the first 16 year-old high school freshman, right?

I hitched my bookbag higher on my shoulder and took a deep breath.

Alright, Indiana, man the fuck up.

I checked over the class schedule and did my best to navigate through the halls with the poorly rendered school map in the back of my planner and what little I remembered from freshman orientation camp. World history was my first class of the day, and I could at least look forward to that.

My second period gym class was another story.

At just a week shy of my fourteenth birthday, I still hadn’t passed through the last of my pubescent growth spurts, but at 5’10” I was doing alright in the height category. I was even taller than some of the seniors. Yet, even my baby fat couldn’t disguise how scrawny I was. Running cross country and track just seemed to make it worse. I had eventually learned to use my weirdness to cover where I lacked. Mom said yes to piercings, which she probably regretted after I started hitting the double digits, and she let me dye my hair whatever color I could make stick. But I still felt awkward stripping down to my boxers in the middle of the boys’ locker room.

The coaches had assigned our lockers and sent us off to change out for class. I was in the middle of shrugging on my gym shirt when someone knocked into me.

“Hey, watch out,” I said, glad that my voice didn’t crack like it had been doing lately. Dad’s voice was really deep, I was hoping mine would get somewhere near that deep someday. My head popped out of my t-shirt just in time to catch who had bumped me.

“Why the fuck should I watch out?” The guy’s letterman jacket proclaimed him to be a senior. A massive as fuck senior. “What you gunna do?”

I stared back at him. First day of high school and I was already about to get my ass kicked. Way to go, fucktard!

“What you looking at?” he demanded. I knew we were supposed to avoid “to be” verbs, but he took the rule a little too literally. “You a fag or somethin’?”

I straightened my spine and threw back my shoulders. If I was going to get my ass kicked, might as well make it memorable.

“And if I am?” I said, tipping up my chin and narrowing my eyes. I was still a lanky kid standing in my t-shirt and boxers, but I imagined the short, flaming red mohawk and eyebrow piercing made me look a little tougher than I actually was. Nobody but Laurel and my mom knew I liked boys, and I suddenly felt bold to be coming out in a high school boys’ locker room. “Do you have a problem with me being gay?”

Dudebro the Senior took a bit to process what I was saying. Faggotry was the go-to all-purpose threat for your average adolescent male, and sometimes it wasn’t even a real comment on the person’s sexuality. Even still, the natural reaction was to DENY, DENY, DENY. No one expected the twiggy freshman to buck tradition.

“You better not be trying to get on my dick, faggot.”

I made an obvious show of looking him over – from the top of his dudebro hair down to his over-priced and overrated Jordans.

“Sorry, bro,” I said with as much derisive contempt as I could manage without actually knowing what either word meant. “But, you’re not my type.”

The other boys in the locker room laughed. Not at me, oddly enough, but at the senior. If you couldn’t even get the gay freshman on your jock, then how much luck would you have with girls, right?

“Fucking queer,” he muttered and stomped out.

Eventually, everyone’s attention was elsewhere, and I was once again forgotten. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and pulled on my gym shorts. Then, a hand wrapped around my upper arm. I let out a surprised yelp and about jumped into my locker.

“Holy shit!” I squawked, my voice choosing that moment to start cracking. I looked down at the boy who had grabbed me – a shorter, pudgy kid with a mop of mousy brown curls and smiling green eyes. He wasn’t ugly, nor was he particularly pretty, but his amused expression definitely made up for it.

“That was fucking awesome,” he laughed. “I thought that guy was going to kill you!”

“You and me both.”

“Fuck, man, the way you stood up to him. Must have some fucking balls.”

“Or a death wish.”

“I’m Michael, by the way,” he said. “But, everyone and their fucking brother is named Michael, so you can call me Jameson.”

“I’m Indiana,” I said. “But my friends call me Indie.”

Okay, technically, I only had the one friend, but that’s what she called me.

“Like Indiana Jones?”

“Yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes. My mother’s maiden name was Jones, and that’s exactly what she was going for. It certainly didn’t cause my parents to split, but I still think her putting Indiana Jones Norman on my fucking birth certificate was what set their divorce in motion. Of course, if you chose to be out on business the week your wife was due, you kinda had it coming.

Jameson chatted with me while we finished getting dressed. Well, he chatted at me, and I listened. The guy never stopped for air. By the time we had our shoes laced up and were following the other boys out the door, I already knew he’d moved here from Richmond over the summer, lived a couple miles from my house, liked to swim at the beach, and had a dog whose name meant “golden” in some language that I could never remember.

Months later and Jameson still hadn’t run out of things to chatter about.

We were sitting on his bed, playing Call of Duty. We had to keep it down because it was past midnight, and we were supposed to be asleep. His dad had already come in twice to warn us. Jameson had been telling me about this kid he knew back in Richmond who stayed up for three days straight playing CoD and ended up in intensive care. Laurel had been, and always will be, my best friend, but Jameson was special. You couldn’t stay up late at night, playing video games and talking shit with a girl.

“By the way,” he said after a very un-Jameson-like silence. I leaned closer so I could hear him. “What is your type?”

“My type?”

“You said the jock guy wasn’t your type,” he clarified.

“What jock?”

“The one of the first day,” he said. “Remember? You told him that you weren’t into him, that he wasn’t your type. So, what is?”

“Why are you asking about my type?”

“No reason in particular,” he said quietly, seeming almost unsure of himself. “Maybe I just wanted to know if I stood a chance.”

I looked back at Jameson, with his laughing green eyes and mile-a-minute mouth. I don’t remember what possessed me to say what I did any more than I remember who initiated the kiss that followed.

“Maybe you do.”

~*~*~*~

I used to wonder how Cory put up with Efrain’s music, but I had come to realize that his taste was just as bad.

First, there was the weird as fuck song, some kind of deathmetal/J-pop hybrid, about playing tag. Next, there was the drum and bass techno song that featured a screaming auto-tuned orgasm in the middle. Then, there was the song demanding a blowjob, where the singer simulated gagging then repeatedly shouted “SUCK IT” over the bridge. He even did a hyperstereotypical gay impression at the end. I imagined it would have been funny to a slightly older person who would get the pop culture references.

Or, to a straight guy.

As if out to prove my point, it was the straight guy laughing the loudest. I looked over at Efrain’s teammate, in the backseat of Cory’s truck with me. They introduced him as JJ, then spent most of the ride downtown calling him Teague. It confused the hell out of me, especially since he called them Garza and Card in turn, and I had to remind myself that those were Efrain and Cory’s last names.

“Have I told you lately how crappy your taste in music is?” Efrain asked Cory over the strains of some industrial pop number about a mommy complex.

“My taste in music?” Cory responded in mock indignation. “Half the shit you listen to sounds like some dude in a basement was like, Oh hey, I have this slick beat, let's see how many random sounds I can shove in. What? Lyrics? Why would I need lyrics?”

“Hey, you leave edIT out of this,” he said. “At least I don’t pick my favorite artists based on how bangable their ass is.”

“Hey,” Cory mimicked, finger pointing at Efrain in much the same way. “You leave Sam Hunt out of this.”

JJ was laughing so hard at their bickering that I doubted he picked up on Cory’s slip. I knew Efrain was a hardcore closet case, but they were failing miserably at not flirting with each other. I cleared my throat, hoping to distract them before they outed themselves. They were still going back and forth in the front seat, but JJ’s attention seemed to shift to me instead.

He looked at me with a curious expression. This was the first time I’d met him, but Laurel had mentioned him to me before. The guy liked to play stupid, yet was anything but. He was the same age as Laurel, but was already working on his Master’s while she was still a senior.

JJ hummed thoughtfully and turned to look out the window as Cory pulled up at a stop light.

A truck waited on my and Cory’s side of the vehicle, loaded up with boxes and furniture. Cory started giggling like the still-teenaged guy he was over the labeling on the side of one box. Apparently, it had been used to ship lube in a past life. Didn’t matter that it was now full of “kitchen stuff,” as was written in black permanent marker.

“That could come in handy.”

“Eres apretado, acho,” Efrain laughed. “Pero no está tan apretado.”

“Eres grande, vato,” he said in response. “Pero no está tan grande.”

I had no idea what the fuck they’d just said, but we didn’t need to know that to understand that they were still flirting.

“Funny,” JJ said. He was still staring out his side of the truck.

“What’s that?” Cory asked over his shoulder.

“I’m the only straight person here.”

As he was sitting in front of me, I couldn’t quite see Cory’s face, but I assumed it carried an expression like Efrain’s look of stunned horror. Luckily, we were still at a stop light, or else Cory might have caused some vehicular carnage in his state of shock. Of course, I was pretty sure shock was plain as day on my face, too.

The three of us turned to stare at JJ, who turned away from whatever held his attention outside to take in the three of us in our stupefied silence. A car horn blared behind the truck; at some point, the light had changed. He managed to keep his face straight for all of a minute before breaking down in a fit of laughter. Cory turned around and nervously drove on while JJ’s laughter gave way to giggles before finally settling down.

The obvious questions were answered in short order. How long did he know? (“The whole damn time.”) How’d he figure it out? (Efrain – “Never picked up chicks.” Cory – “He’s openly bi. Still don’t get how no one else has noticed.” Me – “Lucky guess, man.”) Why didn’t he say anything? (“Watching Garza squirm: Priceless.”) Was he really cool with this? (“Why not?”) Did the others know? (“God, you’re lucky the rest of the guys are fucking thick as bricks. You’re obvious as fuck.”)

Eventually, JJ and I settled into ribbing the poor couple.

“Garza’s always had a raging hard-on for Card. Shoulda seen him when the coaches brought out the new freshmen,” he said. “He tried pretty hard to hide it, but his face had DAT ASS! written all over it.”

Seemed the only thing written on Efrain’s face now was please make him stop. I caught Cory’s amused reflection in the side mirror.

“Fuck, there was this one time that Card had this weird shit called chamoy that he and Rice were trying to get everyone to eat. I bet Rice $50 that Garza would do it if Card asked him.”

“And?” I said.

“Motherfucker let Card feed him,” he laughed. “Dude, man ate it right off his fork in the middle of a press event. Rice was so fucking pissed.”

“I knew Rice seemed too pissed off for losing a lunch bet,” Cory chuckled.

“If you ever want something out of Garza,” JJ said to me, “you’ll have to stay on the kid’s good side.”

“Oh, no, he went and fucked himself over with that one,” Efrain said. “Should I share how that came about?”

“Efrain,” Cory said quietly and shook his head. Whatever he had been about to say died.

“See what I mean?” JJ asked me.

“I already knew about that,” I said. “Cory has him completely housebroken. Used to be a massive slut, but Efrain’s totally cock-whipped now.”

“I can imagine,” he said. “Know how dogs do that one thing when their owner comes home?”

“Yeah.” I never had a dog myself, but I remembered how Jameson’s old dog used to perk up moments before he walked in, as if she had some psychic ability and knew when her boy was nearby. “Not sure where you’re going with this, though.”

“Let’s just say we knew when Card was about to walk in the room.” Efrain sank a little lower in his seat while his boyfriend barely contained an amused snort. JJ continued. “Though, it goes both ways. Card started wearing his glasses all the time, probably ‘cause Garza gets off on it.”

“Huh, now that you mention it,” I said. “Hey, Cory, aren’t you far-sighted?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. While Efrain looked downright embarrassed, Cory just seemed mildly amused.

“Best part, though, was watching them self-friendzone themselves because they were convinced the other guy was straight,” JJ said. “Almost as much fun as watching them be all awkward and shit after they hooked up. Card came into the locker room with this massive bite mark on his shoulder.”

“I remember Efrain freaking out about that,” I said. “Seems he also—”

“Do not finish that,” Efrain all but snapped.

“But, this,” JJ said, pointing at the couple, “is a little weird. Probably the most I’ve seen them act like they’re dating.”

“Better than what I have to put up with,” I muttered. “You should hear what—”

“Indie,” Cory cut in, a strange warning note in his voice. “Choose your next words carefully.”

~*~*~*~

Part Two – What All the Howling’s For

How what was supposed to be me officially introducing my boyfriend to my best friend and my roommates turned into a major event was still beyond me.

When I got Preston calmed down after his gay chicken loss to Indie, I told him about Efrain agreeing to come to the show. Then he bragged to the GSA about meeting “Kitten’s Wolfie,” and they promptly invited themselves. Since lez-Delia was going, Marina would be there, too. She told Berta and Luz, who told the rest of the people I went out dancing with (who Preston collectively referred to as my “dance crew”), and they decided to come.

Earlier this week, I was a fucking dumbass and told the guys about the gig when they asked about my birthday plans. Baker was all like “dude, scene chicks,” then Whitlock was like “yeah, scene chicks,” and the next thing I knew, they’d all decided that Friday’s show was the place to be.

I think Indie invited himself because he correctly guessed that Preston would be there. I was not looking forward to that particular encounter, or what Preston planned to do to me later.

I parked the truck in the garage closest to the venue. Teague and Indie were still making jokes at Efrain’s expense. He had earned himself another round of ribbing when he quickly ruffled my hair before we met up with the rest of our teammates. I was having a hard time wrapping my head around being out to Teague, but I definitely had a new appreciation for the big guy.

The team met us on the ground floor, and Efrain quickly introduced them to his roommate. Indie looked a little out of place standing among eight football players, but he integrated pretty well for someone who, at least by Efrain’s accounts, didn’t make friends. Indie and Teague’s chuckling signaled that they were still enjoying their common interest, even if they were being more discreet about it with the rest of the guys around.

Down the block, the GSA and the dance crew converged on us from two different directions. A squealing Berta broke away from the dance crew and threw herself into Teague’s arms. He threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and started down the block while she giggled and squealed in protest.

“Man, talk about self-friendzoning,” I muttered low enough that only Efrain heard. The two of them had hit it off on Facebook, but he still hadn’t asked her out.

Preston led the GSA charge, wearing his usual. Tonight was supposed to be casual, the guys were all in jeans with t-shirts under their hoodies and coats, but Preston didn’t do casual. Black slim-fit slacks, leather oxfords, and a cardigan with coordinating t-shirt underneath his black military-style peacoat. Only his confidence kept him from looking out of place in a sea of slouchy guys. At least he had left his bowtie at home.

I tried introducing everyone, but that soon fell apart when I got to the team. Garza, Baker, Whitlock, Lithgow, Rice, Martinez, and Teague had a hard time remembering that they were Efrain, Paul, Denholm, Mitch, Adrian, Greg, and JJ to the outside world. Worse still, was when the GSA, and some of the dance crew, started greeting Efrain with “Wolfie! CHOMP!”

“Wolfie?” Baker said.

I noticed Berta casually pointing at her shoulder in answer to Teague, who started laughing. I knew he would no longer be content to call Efrain anything but.

“Why Wolfie?” Lithgow asked Efrain.

I started to panic a little, as I couldn’t come up with a good excuse. Efrain rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“Lope,” he said testily. “My middle name means wolf. Why the hell did you tell them that, Cory?”

Holy fuck, the man could think fast.

“I didn’t know Garza had a middle name,” Baker said.

“Dude,” Lithgow laughed. “Your ass didn’t know Garza had a first name.”

Among the confusion, Indie moved away from the team. He sidled up to Preston and put his arm across my best friend's shoulders.

“Who said you can touch me in public?” Preston snapped at him.

“Oh ho,” Indie said. “Does this mean I get to touch you in private?”

Not only was this the first time I’d seen them together, this was also the first time I’d seen Preston get snippy. He growled and folded his arms over his chest, but he made no move to shake Indie off, even when he tipped up Preston’s chin and kissed him. If anything, he seemed to melt into it.

I nervously shot my teammates a glance. If they reacted poorly to Efrain’s gay roommate gay kissing my gay best friend into a little gay puddle of gay surrender, then they sure as hell wouldn’t take too kindly to Efrain and me dating. However, none of them acted like they’d seen anything out of the ordinary. It was a promising sign.

The GSA, however, did take notice. Efrain wouldn’t be the only person living something down after tonight.

My rapidly expanding mob continued on. A little ways from the venue, our entourage picked up Laurel, Lacey and Meggie, along with some pretty bemused boyfriends, including the one Efrain and I had “traumatized.” Despite all of them being in his house and drinking his alcohol, Indie only knew three of their names, but they fell in with our group, aided by mutual connections across the faction lines.

And thus, we rolled up on Al’s gig like someone took Homecoming, a Pride parade, and a dance competition, threw them into a bag with some hapless spectators, shook it all up, then skimmed a modestly sized crowd off the top. Considering that Al’s band, Woodchuck Sanchez (don’t ask, long story), was an opening act, my posse easily doubled the audience.

Al and Gio were outside enjoying a little smoke-free air after unloading and setting up. Gio waved when he saw me walking up.

“Sup, Birthday B—” he said, cutting off when he finally noticed the crowd behind me. Al about dropped the water bottle he had been drinking from. He just barely got enough of his wits about him to tell me that Romero was already inside with his girlfriend.

We paid the cover fee and entered. Whether the bouncers felt intimidated charging cover to guys who were much larger than them was anybody’s guess. In any case, we were quickly ushered into the venue where we proceeded to stand around awkwardly until Woodchuck Sanchez finished the last of their soundchecks and was ready to play.

I’d heard samples of their stuff before, and it was really cool. The lead singer was training to be a voice coach, so he practiced on his bandmates. Gio had told me that Al already had a decent singing voice, but under Lem’s tutelage, he’d really grown. Brit, the cool girl bassist, and Joey, the drummer, also improved, which allowed them to take more risks in their song harmonies. One of my favorites used a sort of reverse chorus, where all four members sang on the main verses while Lem sang without back-up on the chorus.

Once things were good to go, the house music went down, and Lem greeted the audience.

“We brought the noise, but looks like Birthday Boy brought the crowd,” he joked. The audience cheered. I wasn’t sure on the numbers, but until people started showing up for the later acts, my posse accounted for nearly half the people there. Lem waited until the cheering died down before he spoke again. “Alright, let’s do this.”

Joey counted off the beats, and Brit launched into a killer bass line. Al and Lem came in on their guitars, with Al on lead. Lem’s naturally gifted voice exploded over the instrumentation. The noise had been brought in full and it was only right that we lost our collective shit. I knew this wasn’t everybody’s thing, but Woodchuck Sanchez was too good to be denied. Teague and the rest of the team rocked out, and my dance crew and the GSA danced where the beats allowed.

“They’re really good!” Efrain shouted over the music.

“I know, right!” I answered.

He had been nodding his head in time with the music since the show started. Efrain shot a quick look over my shoulder then started grinning. He pointed behind me.

“All that shit talking, now look at him.”

I looked back. At first I noted Berta and Teague, who were dancing, but I didn’t think that’s who Efrain meant. I scanned the crowd until I noticed Preston and Indie together. Indie stood behind Preston with his arms wrapped around him and his chin resting on the top of his head. Preston leaned back into his chest while tapping his fingers on Indie’s thigh in time with the music.

Romero caught my eye when I turned back and mouthed something that looked like when did that happen. I shrugged. I guessed this development would look the oddest to him since he had been witness to Preston’s little attack twink episode. To him, Indie hanging all over Preston probably looked like the human equivalent of a gazelle getting affectionate with the lion that had been tearing into its ass all of ten minutes ago. Forget circles, that was like the Clusterfuck of Life.

As soon as I could get him away, I was going to have to ask Preston if this was an extension of their gay chicken game, or a sign of actual interest in each other. Something, however, told me this was a column-A-column-B situation.

Nevertheless, I was still amazed at my teammates’ reactions. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for a straight person who suddenly found himself surrounded by openly gay and lesbian couples to freak out. Yet, they took it in stride, even stepping in to stare down some assholes who were harassing Marina and lez-D. I was sure it would be something else entirely if they were to find out that two of the guys they regularly undressed and showered in front of were in a same-sex relationship, but I was hopeful.

While I contemplated my teammates’ ally-ness, Woodchuck Sanchez kept killing it on stage. I knew they were good based on the samples, but you couldn’t really gauge how good a band was until you saw them live. If anything, however, they sounded even better in front of an audience. They mixed some covers into their set, so there’d be some tunes to sing along to, but everyone was just as content to rock out to their ordinal songs. Overall, I think my various social circles enjoyed the show.

Lem made really weird small talk between songs – repeatedly and awkwardly introducing the band, talking about the town, mentioning the weather, etc. It was strange until I realized he was saying almost the exact same thing every time, and that he was doing it on purpose. Toward the end of the set, he addressed the crowd.

“So, this one is for Birthday Boy.”

“Sup, Kitten!” Al yelled after him, and some people from GSA and the dance crew called out “Kitten!” in response. I pretended not to notice my teammates’ confused expressions (I was sure Berta was already filling Teague in) as Joey counted out the beats and the band launched into their next song.

I couldn’t quite place it until Lem sang the first line.

Say, say my playmate/ Won’t you lay hands on me?

“Wolf Like Me” by TV on the Radio.

The choice was not lost on me.

~*~*~*~

By the time Al (and his glorious manbun) did his little rocker thing, the club was too stuffy for me to think straight. I stepped out onto the patio to get some fresh air. I was followed by the smell that had seeped into my wool coat and Indie Norman.

I was going to kill Cory for not warning me that that man would be here, but only after he paid my dry cleaning bill. Nothing short of the cleaners was going to get the smell of clove cigarettes, vape fumes, and scenester desperation out of my favorite coat. Yeah, he told me it was casual, but after suffering defeat at Indie’s hands (well, hand) while dressed like that, I couldn’t bring myself to dress down. Good thing, too, as I needed all the social armor I could muster to deal with the Iceman.

Indie finished off the last of his beer and tossed the bottle in the trash can. He walked over and draped his arm across my shoulders. He looked just like he always did – pseudo-skater-slacker realness. Jeans, t-shirt from a local band (not any in tonight’s lineup, I was told, as that would be absolutely gauche), and a jacket. His wallet chain looped across his hip. Indie was so not my type, and it pissed me off to no end that my lower half totally disagreed with the assessment.

“Why are you being so touchy-feely?”

“Just trying to keep you from going rabid.”

“That ‘disarming’ bullshit, again,” I said. “It didn’t work last time, so I have no idea why you’re still trying.”

“What makes you think it didn’t work?”

“I slapped you.”

“Yes, you slapped me,” he conceded, pulling me closer. “But, I know what you can do to a man, so I still consider my first experiment a success.”

“First? You think I’m going to let you do that again.”

He leaned down and murmured in my ear.

“You know what I can do to a man; you want me to do it again,” he said. “You’re also really curious about my other piercings.”

He nibbled my earlobe, and my legs suddenly felt like jello. I was forced - yes, forced - to lean into him for support.

Okay, so I may or may not have done a few late night Google searches for genital piercings. I had it narrowed down to three types, which made me hate myself even more for the amount of time I wasted thinking about Indie and his dick.

I turned my head, seeking his mouth. In for a penny, in for a pound. Fortunately, an unfamiliar male voice cut into our little moment, and I was spared from embarrassing myself by initiating a kiss with Indie Dick-ception Norman.

“Hey, Indie,” the man said. He was plain, bordering on unattractive. Curly light-brown hair that covered his ears, face freckled almost to the point of tanned, body a little on the chunky side. His eyes, however, were an enviable emerald hue. It had to be his natural color, as no colored contact lens could mimic that exact shade. Of the great many injustices in the world, a man as unremarkable as this guy having such absolutely remarkable eyes just about topped the list. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Indie stiffened, his whole body going tense, and his hand twitched on my shoulder. His voice, when he eventually spoke, had lost the knee-weakening heat. He sounded nervous, maybe even a little scared.

“Hello, Jameson,” he said.

Cory had mentioned this guy before. So, this was the man that ruined Indie Norman. If this seriously was the guy, then Indie had even more explaining to do.

But, that would have to wait.

I rose up on my tiptoes and whispered in Indie’s ear.

“Want me to stay for this? Need me to kick his ass?”

“I’ll be fine,” he whispered back. Then, he added aloud “Mind grabbing me another beer on your way back?” as if to mask the nature of our conversation.

“Not a problem,” I answered. Granted, I barely knew Indie, but I hadn't ever heard him sound that unsure, even when I was about to beat the shit out of him. Still, I walked away to give them a chance to talk. Letting a man get you off once didn’t entitle you to his business.

They made small chit chat -- hello, how are you, blah blah blah. I was almost to the entrance, but couldn’t bring myself to go back into the bar.

“I miss you,” I heard the guy say to him.

I stood there, waiting for Indie’s response. I think we all were, but it wasn’t forthcoming. I tried to move forward, but for some reason, I couldn’t take the next step. I recognized that every man needed a flaw, but why the hell did mine have to be an overwhelming need to meddle in everyone’s affairs?

I spun around on my heel and strode back to Indie and this Jameson guy – swish in my step, smile on my face. If Indie was surprised to see me walking back, he didn’t let it show. I gave him my best ­just-go-with-it look as I wrapped my arms around his neck. I felt his hands on my hips.

“I forgot,” I said, sheepishly showing him the little “x” on the back of my hand. “It’ll be a couple months before I can buy you a beer.”

“I guess I’ll have to wait then,” he said. He had picked up my flirty tone and matched it.

“Hm, I do have some at my place, though.”

“That could work.”

“That’s of course if,” I pretended to notice Jameson still standing there, “you’re done talking, sugar.”

The ugly toad of a man called Jameson stood there gaping at me. I suppressed a superior smirk.

“Good deal,” I said, taking Indie’s hand and leading him away. “Let’s make our goodbyes and get out of here, eh?”

“I can get with this plan,” Indie said. I wasn’t going to guess at why he was grinning.

“Good night, Jameson,” I said ever so sweetly, just to rub it in that I was sashaying off with the ex he still missed.

~*~*~*~